Innocence
by BlackMagicians
Summary: Innocence is fleeting. Yassen/Dark!Alex
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Innocence

**Rating:** M

**Pairing: **Yassen/Alex

**A/N: **This is the first Alex Rider fic I've written, so I hope it seems somewhat plausible. Takes place in a universe where Yassen didn't really die and where Alex is both older and darker.

**Warnings: **Violence. Language. Boy sex. Torture.

* * *

><p>"He's a contract killer, Alex. We believe it was he who killed Ian Rider."<p>

His stomach lurched uncomfortably as he stared down at the photograph, wondering just how the black and white shot could unsettle him so much. His brain had recognised the danger immediately and he found he wasn't surprised by her admission, already aware that this was a man he didn't want to cross paths with.

But this man had killed his uncle. Hot anger bubbled up, burning his throat as he gazed down at the image, at the man who had stolen the last of his family and turned his world upside down. Fear turned to hate; it suddenly sickened him how the man could stand there so easily after all he'd done. How many other lives had he ruined? His mouth set in a grim line as he considered his options, unable to look away from the figure taunting him, confident and attractive and very much alive. His concentration was barely on the conversation, answering the questions automatically.

He stood up when Mrs. Jones reclaimed the photograph, frowning at the loss but able to bite back the sudden desire to demand she hand it over to him. He didn't want MI6 knowing just how much the man had affected him. He already knew that, despite their warning, he would not be informing them if he ever saw the assassin. It was the first time in his life that he'd ever wanted to kill someone and he knew he wouldn't be able to pass up the chance.

It was child's play to take the photo back. He waited until her head was turned and palmed the image, walking back across the hangar before she had the chance to realise it was missing.

* * *

><p>He wasn't even hugely surprised when the taxi driver turned out to be Sayle. One mission and he had already been changed irrevocably, thrown into a world with no room for any sort of childish innocence. He'd survived purely on luck, his own skills no match for the situation he'd found himself in, and still couldn't believe that he wasn't dead.<p>

Maybe that why he wasn't scared. He followed Sayle's instructions without complaint, discarding half-formed escape plans as he realised that there was no escape this time. It was comforting, in a way, to know that there was nothing he could do.

He was going to die. The realisation should have come as more of a shock and he wondered why he wasn't trying to beg for his life. Jack would be upset if he died. He didn't want to make her cry.

Alex glanced at the helicopter when prompted, wondering at the choice of garish red and yellow for a getaway vehicle, before turning his attention back to the man pointing a gun at him. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. He'd managed to foil Sayle's plans and save thousands of lives. And yet it seemed pointless; Sayle would escape, able to try again whenever he wished. All the teenager had managed to achieve was a bullet with his name on it.

He didn't even blink when the shots rang out. The pain he'd expected was missing and he allowed himself to relax, comforted by the fact that it was at least all over. It took a few more moments to realise that it hadn't been Sayle who'd pulled the trigger.

His eyes followed Sayle as the man staggered backwards and hit the floor, watching the red blossom on his chest with surreal fascination. Dead. Alex hadn't even noticed the helicopter had landed before the pilot was suddenly in view, walking across to the dead man and prodding the body emotionlessly with his foot. He didn't even seem to notice that Alex was there.

But Alex noticed him. The recognition pulled him sharply back into the real world and his eyes narrowed, fists clenching automatically at his sides. "You're Yassen Gregorovich."

A nod. Irritated by the lack of emotion, Alex questioned him again, receiving nothing but smoothly calculated responses in reply. The man even dared to smile when Alex told him that he was going to kill him one day, clearly not the slightest bit afraid, but it was the last line that really got him.

"Killing is for grown-ups and you're still a child." Apparently finished with him, Yassen turned his back on the teenaged spy and started back towards the helicopter.

Alex snarled. He leapt after the Russian, hand reaching up to grab the other's shoulder and turned him back to face him, surprised when the man offered no resistance. They stayed like that for a few moments, enraged brown eyes meeting calm blue ones, one of Yassen's eyebrows raised slightly in question.

He didn't know what to do next. He had no weapon and it was clear that the older man could push him off whenever he wanted to. Yassen was starting to brush him off when Alex reacted, using the hand on the assassin's shoulder to balance as he pressed his lips forcefully against the other's, eyes squeezing shut as he attempted to elicit some sort of response from the other. He couldn't bear this man ignoring him.

Yassen allowed it for almost a minute before pushing the boy off carefully, emotionless and unaffected by the sloppy kiss. He returned to the helicopter without a word or backwards glance, blades whirring as the engine was restarted. Alex watched it disappear into the darkness.

He was left alone, humiliated and angry, on the rooftop. His bottom lip was bleeding slightly from the rough activity.

One day Yassen would see that he wasn't just a child. One day Alex would beat him at his own game. Then he would kill him.

* * *

><p>He still wasn't sure why he hadn't killed Yassen on the yacht. It would have been so easy to end his life; as good as Yassen was, there would have been no way to dodge a bullet from the gun held a centimetre from his forehead.<p>

Instead he'd been distracted by the proximity of the man he'd decided was his enemy. The man's face had fascinated him and Alex had found himself studying it, committing every detail to memory; the feminine lashes framing those cold eyes, the chiselled lips that had proved so unyielding. There was a sort of androgynous beauty to him, something that almost took his breath away, but he knew exactly what that lithe, feline body was capable of and it terrified him.

It had irritated him that Yassen still hadn't been bothered by any of it. It was as if he'd automatically dismissed Alex and the threat that he posed, still unable to see anything but the child. It was embarrassing to admit that the Russian had played him like an expert, keeping him distracted until help had turned up.

He'd even saved his life for the second time – if throwing him to the bull could really be called saving him – and had walked out of his life without a backward glance.

It hurt to realise that Yassen still thought of him as nothing more than a child.

* * *

><p>Yassen was dead. The thought was so unbelievable that Alex almost wanted to laugh. The man had seemed so untouchable, so utterly unbeatable, that it had seemed some sick pantomime when Damian Cray of all people had put a bullet through his chest.<p>

The assassin's words had been totally unexpected. That Yassen, the perfect assassin, was unable to kill him. That he'd known his father. That his father had been a traitor and a murderer.

That Yassen loved him.

And yet it was only because of his father. Yassen had protected him because he was John Rider's child, because he'd reminded him of a man that the assassin had clearly admired. He didn't understand why it made him so angry.

Cray had stolen Yassen from him. The knowledge that he would someday kill the Russian had been one of the few constants in his life, but it was the realisation that he would never have a chance to prove himself that truly distressed him. He would never be anything but a child.

Confused, angry, and a little heartbroken, it had taken a long time for Alex to accept his death.

* * *

><p>It seemed somehow appropriate that he'd killed Julius with a Russian gun. It was the only thing that was.<p>

Pulling the trigger had been far too easy. He'd barely had to exert any pressure, flexing his finger the tiniest amount, and the bullet had been released with no resistance. He'd watched it punch through his twin's chest, watched identical eyes widen in shock and then close, watched him collapse into the flower bed. The rain washed away the blood that started to pool around his body.

He'd never understood why they hadn't wanted to give him a gun. He'd killed people before, he'd argued, and giving him a gun would just help him to protect himself.

He hadn't realised how different it would be to actually shoot someone. It had been so easy to do, so quick, and a life had been taken just like that.

But the scary thing was how close he had come to actually enjoying it. For a brief moment he'd felt alive, finally in control again.

The feeling hadn't lasted for long. Emptiness replaced it; everything had been taken from him. His parents. Ian. Jack. His friends. His future. His innocence.

Yassen...

Julius shouldn't have been his first kill. That bullet should have been meant for Yassen.

* * *

><p>His life in America had not been the fairytale ending they'd hoped for. He knew how hard the Pleasures had worked to try and make him forget, to try and turn him back into a normal boy, but he was too broken for anyone to fix. He was still grateful that they'd tried.<p>

It had been impossible to simply return to the routine of school and homework and hanging out with friends. Everything had seemed so pointless; lessons bored him, his peers were nothing more than children, and he found himself wishing that Julius had managed to shoot first. At least he wouldn't have had to endure this awful monotony.

He'd tried to kill himself and found himself unable. Still, there was pleasure to be found in sliding the knife across his skin, watching the blood come to the surface and escape in fat, heavy drops. The pain reminded him he was still alive, and a few more scars hardly mattered. He'd been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder and given a pharmacy of pills to take. They had helped, but it hadn't been enough.

He doubted anyone was surprised when he started drinking. He'd fallen in with a rough crowd at school and found himself attending parties most weekends, the alcohol and loud music allowing him to forget, if only for a few hours. Sex helped too. He looked older than he was, with a pretty face and perfectly toned body, and it wasn't hard to attract girls. It was alright but it wasn't enough. Boys were better, rougher and faster and harder, but he still wasn't satisfied.

He joined a gang but found himself easily outclassing all of his opponents. He started actively looking for trouble, getting into fights for the hell of it, facing groups of men older and larger than him. He found that he enjoyed the violence and didn't care about the blood covering his knuckles. Someone introduced him to a fight club; he found himself competing for money in arenas that stank of blood and sweat and beer. He donated the cash to charity, only seeking the thrill that came with victory.

It had been the drugs that had truly undone him. It hadn't taken long for him to become addicted to the release they offered, blissful hours of peace that he hadn't expected to find again. He suspected he'd been close to killing himself before he'd finally been rescued.

Rescued? It had been the CIA who had eventually swooped in and retrieved him – he'd always known that they were still keeping tabs on him – and had, to his amazement, offered him a job. Breaking his addiction had been hard but they'd been relentless.

He'd accepted, of course. He'd long since accepted that this was the only thing that was left to him, the only thing that kept him feeling human. At least they gave him a gun this time.

Mission after mission was completely dutifully, perfectly, even if he seemed a little too quick to kill. He was one of the top – and most experienced – field agents, daring and capable and innovative. Besides, he had the luck of the devil.

It probably didn't even come as a shock when he killed his partner and turned traitor just weeks before his eighteenth birthday.


	2. Chapter 2

They'd told him to make an example of the target, something to make their enemies take pause and show them that they weren't playing games.

He'd taken the place of one of the security guards a few weeks ago and had used the opportunity to study the target's patterns, learning his routines and investigating the extra security that had been set up. Mr Gavish, it seemed, had become extremely paranoid in the last few months. Not that it would do him any good; the assassin had taken, and succeeded at, missions far more difficult than this one.

He'd chosen Tuesday night to make his move. Mr Gavish had hosted a party earlier in the evening and the estate was still full of guests spending the night. It was easy to abandon his post in the confusion and make his way to the target's private quarters, allaying suspicion by claiming there had been an incident between two of the drunker visitors. An accomplice had been in before he'd even arrived to adjust the cameras, creating a linked pathway of blind spots he could use to reach his destination unseen. He'd studied the plans religiously, learning exactly where to place his feet, knowing that he would only get one shot at this.

The bodyguards at the entrance were dispatched silently and he keyed in the pass code quickly, lips quirking as the door slid open. Sleeping pills in the man's meal meant that the target didn't even stir as he entered the room but he approached the bed carefully anyway, footsteps feather-light on the plush carpet. No point taking risks if he didn't have to.

The bed was immense. The figure curled up in the centre looked almost like a child – Mr Gavish was not a large man anyway – but it just made his job all the easier. He crawled up to hover over the target and pulled out a knife, slitting the man's throat in a single, practiced stroke. He nodded once, glancing down at the blood splattering his uniform, and contemplated the second part of his objective.

When he was finished the corpse looked like something out of a horror film. He'd stripped the clothes off to reveal pale, perfect flesh and had gone to town, aiming to create something visually macabre. He'd worked quickly and emotionlessly, unaffected by the reality of what he was doing, and now sat back to admire what he'd achieved.

He'd arranged the body into the shape of a T, pulling the man's arms wide and straightening his legs, forcing them together. Originally he'd considered crucifying the man traditionally but had dismissed the idea as too risky, though he was sure this small gesture would please his employers. The flat of the knife had been used to pry the man's mouth open to allow him to remove the tongue, prompting a grunt as it proved tricky, and the organ was then pressed into the man's open left hand.

Genitals next. Clean, quick strokes and these were similarly pressed into the man's right hand, already creating a grotesque picture. But he was far from finished. Fingers next, sliced at each joint and laid out carefully next to the mutilated palm in a mockery of the real thing. His toes were dealt with in a similar fashion.

It was the work of moments to carve the familiar initials – SPQR – into the man's smooth chest. He doubted anyone would have doubts as to the group behind the killing, but orders were orders and there was to be nothing subtle about this warning.

That was enough. It wouldn't be long until someone discovered the missing guards at the door and he had no intention of being caught. He wiped the knife clean on the covers and replaced it in the hidden sheath, glancing once more at the corpse displayed on the bed before padding over to the window.

This was going to be the tricky bit. They'd been unable to turn the alarms off without causing suspicion and the assassin knew that the sensors would pick him up as soon as he left the building. He'd deliberately set them off a few times in the last week to study the response and knew that timing was tight, even if the numerous false alarms would slow them slightly.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. A balaclava, muddy green cotton, was pulled from his shirt and into position over his face. He doubted the cameras would be able to capture anything that could be used to identify him but he couldn't afford to take the chance. Nimble fingers undid the lock on the window and he slid it up slowly, aware that too much noise now would get him killed.

He waited for a few moments, making sure that the action hadn't alerted any of the patrolling guards, before sliding the buckle on his belt apart and pulling out the piton, anchoring it to the sill. He tugged on the cord to make sure it was secure and, satisfied, launched himself out of the window, descending fast enough that it would have ripped the skin from his fingers if not for the gloves. He winced as the alarms came to life, wailing and flashing, and the whole house was illuminated in moments.

He hit the ground running, severing the cable as quickly as he could, and darted away from the group that had been attracted by the sound. The fence surrounding the fence was almost impenetrable; it was, no doubt, the reason that Mr Gavish had felt secure enough to sleep. Twenty feet high, and electrified, he didn't fancy his chances if he'd had to find his own way over it.

Still, he didn't have to. He'd been informed that there would be a gap in the fence wide enough to crawl through and he had simply nodded, accepting that it would be there. There was no point worrying about the what ifs now; it was too late to change his plans. He would be killed if they caught him.

Boots thudded on the ground as his heart hammered in his chest, pumping oxygen and adrenalin around his body. He found himself smiling as he ran, feeling more alive now than he had in weeks, and was almost disappointed that everything would soon be over.

He spotted the hole as one of his pursuers raised a gun, diving for the space as a bullet clipped his shoulder. Only a graze, but he didn't have time to stop and check it now. They'd be after him soon enough.

Too soon. He'd only just entered the forest bordering the estate when he heard one of the guard dogs crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He pulled the TT-33 from his waistband and half turned, firing two shots at the angry wolf-dog snapping at his heels. It whined in pain but didn't stop, snarling at him as it launched itself through the air.

He twisted at the last moment and the teeth aiming for his throat embedded themselves in his shoulder instead. He swore as he was knocked off his feet, grappling with the canine. The knife he'd used to kill Mr Gavish flashed in his hand and he drove it into the beast's side desperately, stabbing madly until it finally collapsed onto his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

It took him a few minutes to catch his breath. His shirt was covered in blood, both his own and the animal's, and his shoulder was bleeding freely from the savage bite. He shoved the monster off him with effort and winced as pain erupted from his mangled shoulder. Shaky fingers undid the buttons of the ruined shirt that had been part of his uniform and pulled it off carefully, revealing the bulletproof vest he'd worn underneath it, and tied it tightly around the wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

He got to his feet and set off again, aware that he'd be caught if he didn't get out of here soon. They'd told him that there would be an escape vehicle waiting and he trusted them, knowing that he'd be away free as soon as he was able to find it. Too much had been invested to allow him to die now.

There it was, camouflage netting hiding it from the casual observer. He threw off the covering and revealed the Kawasaki KLX hidden underneath, running his fingers across the dirt bike's casing before rolling the bike across to the path it had clearly followed in. The goggles hooked around the handlebars were fastened over his eyes and he blinked as everything went green.

He threw a leg over the bike and started the engine, grinning when he felt it purr into life below him. It handled perfectly and he directed it fluidly around the trees lining the path, twisting the throttle mercilessly as he forced the bike to accelerate.

Suddenly he was out of forest and flying, the bike sailing through the air as it came off the edge of the bank and hit the road. He glanced back quickly to check for pursuers; the off-road vehicle would be no match for anything they'd send after him. Nothing. He was safe.

He only continued down the road for another few minutes before stopping, dismounting with obvious reluctance, and dragged the bike into the hedgerow with a last fond look. He doubted he'd see it again.

The helicopter was waiting where they'd told him it would be. The man leaning against the side was exactly where he'd predicted him to be.

"You did it?" He could feel the other man's eyes flick towards the ruined shirt wrapped around his shoulder and he frowned at the implication.

"Of course. Everything was done to the letter. And the money?" A hint of a French accent.

"It will arrive in your account in a few hours."

He nodded, removed the goggles, and hoisted himself into the helicopter, almost missing the other passenger in the back in his haste to take a seat. Were they sending other people to check up on him now? He knew they still didn't trust him completely, but he'd never done anything to arouse suspicion, completing each assignment successfully and without question.

The hood of the man's sweatshirt had been pulled down almost to his nose, hiding anything that might have given his identity away. Despite his curiosity, he wasn't paid to pry, and his fingers busied themselves with tugging at the balaclava still covering his face as the engines started up.

A hand on his shoulder made him pause and he turned his head to glance at his handler. "There's a new job for you. They've finally decided you're ready for the big time." The man jerked his head towards the figure in the back. "Your new partner."

The first partner they'd assigned him – he couldn't blame them after he'd killed the last one the CIA had given him. Probably someone to make sure he didn't fuck things up.

He swivelled in the chair and studied what was visible of the man he was now stuck with. Not much was the answer, though the small eyeholes cut into the balaclava rather restricted his vision.

He finished pulling off the mask as the other man dropped his hood, two pairs of eyes widening fractionally in surprised recognition.

"Orion, meet Yassen Gregorovich."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **Thank-you all for all the reviews. :D You have no idea how happy they make me, as it shows that somebody's actually reading/enjoying this story. This is the first time I've tried to write a serious, multichaptered fanfiction so receiving feedback is really important - if you don't like something, feel free to tell me (though I'd appreciate you telling me why, so that I know what I need to fix). So yaaaay, reviewers. 3 Seeing I have a lot of reviews makes me want to update faster.

That said, sorry that this is slightly late. I had a last minute trip to Paris planned so I ended up having ten days with no access to a computer.

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><p>This couldn't be happening. His mind supplied the image of Yassen on Air Force One, a memory that had haunted him for years, and he swallowed tightly as he recalled the moment when the assassin's eyes had finally closed. He hadn't believed there was any possible way the man could have survived the shot, and it had been painfully clear that Yassen had shared his opinion. The Russian's survival was nothing short of a miracle.<p>

Emotion threatened to overwhelm him and he reacted instinctively, pushing it down and locking it away as he retreated into the new persona he'd created for himself, allowing Alex Rider to stay buried. The fists that had tightened automatically loosened and the tense expression on his face melted into a mixture of curiosity and polite interest. He studied the man instead, noting the subtle signs of tension, realising that the man was as surprised to see Alex here as Alex was to see him alive. It was satisfying to realise that he wasn't the only one affected.

He smiled darkly, wondering how anything managed to surprise him anymore, and watched Yassen in silence for a few more moments. "Nice to meet you, Mr Gregorovich."

The Russian merely inclined his head, pale blue eyes never leaving Alex's face, but Alex had no desire to play this game. He needed time to sort everything out in his head, space to accustom himself to the man's survival and allow him to work with the Russian without personal feelings getting in the way and putting them both in danger.

He turned back towards the front and withdrew the pistol from his waistband, comforted by the security offered by the cold steel. He turned it over in his hands as he studied the weapon that had become a constant, though now it seemed a wasteful piece of sentimentality. There were certainly better pistols than the TT-30, though he'd become accustomed to the simple gun. The names and faces of those he'd killed with it were starting to blur but he couldn't find it in himself to care; whatever he felt when he killed, guilt had never featured. Everybody died at some point.

His fingers automatically ejected the magazine and replaced the used shots, sliding the cartridges in with effortless ease. The simple action gave him something else to concentrate on as he attempted to ignore the man sitting behind him. His shoulder ached but he remained silent, knowing there was little to be done until they landed.

* * *

><p>"Take care of that. You have ten minutes." The handler gestured at Alex's shoulder before turning his back, fishing in his pocket for the packet of cigarettes and lighting one as he waited. "Your flight leaves soon."<p>

Alex nodded, retrieving the first aid kit from the 'copter and laying out the required items on the square of blanket provided. Removing the shirt would likely cause the wound to start bleeding again and he had no desire to be searching for anything once that happened. Salt solution, cotton pads, needle and thread, gauze pad and adhesive tape torn into suitable pieces. It would do. He debated taking some of the painkillers also provided but decided against it, emptying the water bottle over the cloth tied around the wound instead. Unbranded and unknown, he had no idea what effect they would have.

Fingers carefully pulled at the hastily tied knot, wishing that he could use both hands for the job. He steeled himself and tugged it off, feeling the newly formed scabs come away with the cloth. As expected, the action prompted the wound to begin bleeding again, though he needed it open in order to clean it properly. He began to remove the bulletproof vest awkwardly, twisting painfully to reach the more irritatingly placed straps, but stiffened as he felt a second pair of hands aiding him.

Lips tightened momentarily as he realised he hadn't heard the assassin approach and berated himself for the carelessness, though he permitted the Russian to continue helping him, remaining still as the man tugged the garment over his head. He nodded briefly, thanking Yassen for his assistance, and reached for the bottle of salt solution and a few of the cotton pads, tipping the bottle up until the first was soaked. The fact that he couldn't see the other man, who he deduced must be on his knees behind Alex, made him nervous, especially with his chest bare. At least the Russian was similarly unable to see Alex's face.

He pressed the pad against the wound and hissed as it stung painfully, though continued sweeping it across the skin and down, mercilessly pressing it into the gash itself even as his body protested the action, replacing the pad as needed. He knew that this was nothing compared to the pain he'd feel if he allowed it to get infected.

Yassen still hadn't moved and Alex resisted the urge to confront him, uncomfortable in having all his scars out on display for the Russian's pleasure. The man's intention was clear when he picked up the needle and threaded it and Alex hesitated, wondering if he should let Yassen do the job.

"Allow me. It will be neater." The Russian moved around to his side and Alex found his eyes meeting the man's again, though it gave him no help. Eventually he nodded, knowing the other was right. He couldn't afford the time needed to numb the whole area, and he suspected the pain would cause his hand to shake.

He braced himself as the needle pushed through his skin, gritting his teeth as he watched Yassen draw the wound closed. It was clear that he'd done this many times before and Alex was thankful for that, at least. He watched as the redhead worked, head dipped in concentration as nimble fingers pushed the edges of the torn flesh together, focusing on the man's appearance as a distraction from the pain.

Alex calculated that Yassen must be close to forty, though only the subtle hint of silver in red hair gave his age away; at a first glance, the Russian did not look much past thirty, beautifully in shape and face unmarred by wrinkles, high cheekbones giving it an ageless appeal. He wondered if anyone had ever told the man in front of him that he was pretty.

As Yassen busied himself with tying off the thread, Alex allowed himself to relax. The stitches were perfectly neat and seemed secure as he rotated his shoulder, though the Russian gave him a cold look. "Do not pull. You will end up with an ugly scar."

Glancing down at his chest, another ugly scar hardly seemed to matter, but Alex nodded anyway. They'd had to stitch him up so many other times before that he was adept in caring for the injuries, and the gauze pads that were currently being taped across would cushion it from further damage. He'd have to change them later, though it would probably be healed enough to chance antiseptic cream on the coverings.

"Thank you." Yassen said nothing in reply, simply staring back at Alex, though the younger man pushed himself to his feet and approached the handler. They didn't have much time left and Alex couldn't board a plane in his current attire.

The man anticipated his question. "Clothes are in a bag under the seat. Hurry up. If you miss this flight, you'll be waiting six hours for the next."

He took the bag out and shook out the clothing, stripping quickly and piling the ruined garments up on the other side. He noted darkly that Yassen had not bothered to turn away and still stood there looking at him, making Alex feel vulnerable in his nudity. He pulled the jeans on roughly over his bare hips, his old boxers bloody from earlier events, and buttoned up the grey shirt quickly. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>The car was parked exactly where he'd been told it would, the keys hidden underneath the tire, and the map on the passenger seat had clearly indicated their destination. He'd driven; Yassen hadn't made any attempt to take the keys from him, and he preferred being in control.<p>

The key to the flat was on the ring with the car key and he studied it absently as he subconsciously counted the number of stairs and locations of the other doors they passed, calculating the best exits and possible ambush sites. The wallpaper on the walls was peeling and stained yellow by the warmth of the overhead lights and the carpet was almost bare from overuse, but Alex didn't care. He'd spent time in far worse places than this.

The lock turned easily and he let himself into the room, flicking the light switch before pausing, glancing about the room carefully before he took a few steps inside. It was small and overfilled with furniture but perfectly adequate, and a quick sweep revealed a single bedroom and a bathroom.

Returning to the main room, Alex brushed past Yassen as he headed towards the fridge, suddenly ravenous. While he expected to find it empty, it couldn't hurt to look.

But the Russian had other ideas. A pale hand shot out and grabbed Alex's shoulder, forcing him back against the wall as Yassen watched him impassively. But two could play at that game, and Alex's expression stayed neutral as he waited for the man to act.

"What are you playing at, little Alex?" Despite the almost kindly phrased question, Yassen looked at Alex flatly, clearly unamused by the turn of events. "This is not your world."

Irritated that the man still seemed to think him a child, though slightly thrilled that he'd finally managed to unsettle his composure, Alex simply smirked, lounging back against the wall as if he'd chosen to be there. As Yassen's face darkened he struck, capturing the assassin's wrists and switching their positions, cracking the man's head on the wall harder than necessary as he did so, and used his thigh to pin the slighter man down.

"Alex Rider is dead. I'm sure you've seen the paperwork." It had been the CIA that had drawn up official documents and held a mock funeral for him, unwilling to have a fifteen year old on record as working for them, and Eric Kesteren had emerged from the ashes, birth certificate conveniently proclaiming him to be eighteen. He'd since dropped that identity too, of course, but the CIA had been careful to keep MI5's suspicions to a minimum. There had been certain promises made by the agency that they wouldn't try and use him.

"What I am is your new partner. If you can't work with me, you'll have to tell them. If you treat me as a child, we'll both be at risk." His words were flat, monotonous, and he refused to let any emotion creep into the exchange. This was just business. "I'm going for groceries."

Releasing the Russian, he turned fluidly, retrieved the pistol from the compartment he'd used to fool airport security and slid it back into its customary position in his waistband before he grabbed the keys from the counter and left.


	4. AN

A/N: I know most people will have already probably guessed that I'm giving up on this. I've spent months trying to get it to work in my head and had written another three chapters, but I just don't like where it's going – it's boring, and I think too out of character. I love the idea of a mentally unstable Alex but the idea of him working for the other side just isn't working for me. The plot just seemed too forced.

Thanks for all the reviews and positive reactions though guys, I really appreciate it. Hopefully in the future I'll be able to get up a better, multi-chaptered fic, but for now I'm going to concentrate on drabbles and getting a better idea of how I picture the characters. If you've got any ideas for short Alex/Yassen (or just Alex) pieces you'd like to see, feel free to request them in a review, and I'll see what I can do about getting something up.


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